Cardigans & Mashed Potatoes
by prof. remus j. lupin
Summary: Rated for what comes later. This is a bit of fanfiction with a twist, mostly original fiction actually. Focuses on an original character and her journey through Hogwarts between 1983 & 1990. Title comes from her favourite things, I guess.
1. Chapter 1

This is fanfiction, yes, _however_ it does not utilise, for the most part, characters created by Jo Rowling. School employees, business owners, etc, yeah, they're hers [except for the DADA teachers, for the obvious reasons, though I might use Quirrell later on and some older students are involved. The story is set in the 80s, you see, and the main character is a year ahead of Charlie Weasley, and Tonks. I'm not sure yet how clearly they'll feature.

I don't intend to write anything epic. I just want to write about Hogwarts, about the life of an ordinary student there, between the two battles with Voldemort, in a time that, for the wizarding world, has an almost 1920s dandy vibe to it; we've won, we're going to celebrate, etc. That's what I'm doing, then, writing about a girl called Svetlana Wainwright, who attends Hogwarts from 1983 to 1990. I'm not familiar with this website, but I've yet to come up with a title. Hopefully I can change it later on.

Now, as per usual, any characters created by Jo, I do not own, nor any concepts. That is to say, in this chapter, I do not own McGonagall, nor any structure held within the wizarding world.

But now, on with the show!

* * *

Svetlana Wainwright was a little bit off-centre. 

She was just a little bit different.

Just a little, mind.

Brought up by mostly absent parents in the suburbs of Cardiff, she'd lived the first eleven years of her life wrapped up in herself. Not by choice, of course – who ever makes such a choice for herself? No, Lana (as she preferred to be known) had been driven to introversion by a myriad of seemingly mundane facts.

Her father, for instance, has been, for as long as she can remember, wrapped up in his world of figures and names, his world of business. Her mother, likewise, had little time to spare for her only daughter, as it seemed she, too, would not be happy unless she was at the top of her game – but at least this gave Lana something to do. You see, her mother's "game" as I put it was education – Catrin Wainwright was a professor of English Literature at the local university, and as such spent a good deal of her time wrapped up in books, the discarded of which Lana hastily jumped upon, and made her own. By the time she reached her eleventh non-birthday (given that her birthday is technically non-existent three out of four years), Lana had explored Brontë, she had explored Hardy and Dickens. Shakespeare was her closest friend, and Wordsworth and Coleridge were among her favourite past-times. She sat there for hours, glasses sliding down her nose, lost in her books. Of course, a girl of eleven could not even begin to hope to understand the intricacies of this literature, but insofar as any could, Lana did.

Her social seclusion turned her precocious, you see. Her parents being inattentive as they were – her father David taking business trips to London and, on the odd occasion, all the way to New York – Lana had the freedom to do as she pleased, but the inability to develop socially. Her school life seemed mostly a nightmare. Though she consistently ranked among the top of her year, she made few friends, and those she did, well, they didn't always exist. She would often take to talking to herself at her desk near the back of the classroom – schoolwork done, she had nothing better to do. She was certainly happy enough, though, don't get me wrong. She didn't seem to realise that she was something less than normal. The sight of a new book filled those big, dark eyes with such joy as most children her age could not understand.

I said there that her school life seemed mostly a nightmare; I hope you paid attention to the modifier.

Of course, though she enjoyed her school life and her home life insofar as she knew nothing different and learning thrilled her in much the same way as a mirror thrills an infant, there were many more peculiarities which had been rearing their heads for as long as Lana could remember: she could make things happen. No one ever asked her about them, of course – no one ever noticed – but if they had, that would be the only way she knew to explain: she could make things happen. She could make things float, and not just in the bath – float in midair. Pens, stones, books – mostly small things, and mostly involuntarily. One, a candle had even lit itself. She had no idea how these things happened, but she knew she was behind it.

Indeed, this would be explained in time.

* * *

The heat of the summer of 1983 pounded down on the Wainwright's south Wales home and Lana, though spending most of her time indoors, was still suffering the consequences of the heat. As she sat in her bedroom, books strewn about, her long dark hair matted itself against her forehead and the back of her neck. The heat, of course, didn't seem to distract her from the novel laying open on her lap – and why should it? 

These six weeks, you might think, would give Lana and her mother some time together, but the truth is, they saw less of each other over the summer than through the school year – at least then there was the every-so-often book donation on Catrin's part. Through the summer, however, it was proved that the two were in fact relatives, Catrin spending her time in the living room, poring over her own tomes of literature and of literary criticism. She seemed to be completely ignorant of the fact that she even had a daughter, most of the time, and Lana's father was just the same.

It was a rare family gathering in early August that saw each and every life in the room change for ever.

David's mother, for whom he named his daughter, had her 72nd birthday on the 8th of August, 1983, and as a result, the four family members – David, Catrin, and the two Svetlanas – piled themselves into the dining room. The four of them went through the niceties of family, but most of the dialogue was, in fact, a monologue on the part of the eldest among them. In her accent, still heavy though she left Russia aged seven, Svetlana harped about the losses which had plagued her life – a theme at birthdays, it seems.

'Oh, David, if your father could be here! He would have liked to have seen little Svetlana, so much like her grandmother! And like your sister—'

There was a topic not discussed, even by this death-obsessed old woman. The death of her daughter Alys had changed her. Not that young Lana could remember this, of course—her aunt died when she was two. David, of course, recognised this:

'Catrin,' said he, diverting attention completely from the tears welling in his mother's eyes, 'perhaps mother might like to hear about what you've been reading?'

Catrin gushed about Eliot while Lana pushed at her mashed potatoes with her fork and knife, distracted. The peas came next, hopping about her plate and into the potatoes. No one noticed, it seemed. It was when the gravy boat rattled that the elder Svetlana shot a look like a steel-tipped arrow in her granddaughter's direction.

'Mum, what's the matter?' demanded David, but Svetlana just stared at the child.

'She probably just bumped the table,' muttered Catrin, disappointed at the diversion of attention.

Svetlana just continued to stare, and her granddaughter was not fazed in the least—she began shoveling the potatoes into her mouth, as though this were an everyday occurrence. Perhaps this would have been forgotten by all at hand had the doorbell not rang at just that moment.

Eager to leave the table and his slight crackpot of a mother, David jumped up to get the door, but when he opened it, he wished he hadn't. There stood the most strangely dressed woman he had ever seen. She was a tall, severe, imposing figure, and getting along in her years, but this is not the shocking bit. She was garbed in long, flowing emerald robes and what appeared to be a witch's hat.

'Ah, Wainwright, I thought I recognised the name. David, isn't it?'

The man simply gaped. He never thought he would have to see this woman again, this woman he'd not seen in decades; this woman who took away his sister.

'Come now, Wainwright, don't just stand there like a petrified squirrel, let me in! I'm here to see your daughter.'

He was taken aback. This couldn't be, Lana wasn't—but then, what actually did he know about his daughter? He never was around, he didn't watch her enough to be entirely certain…

'Yes, marm,' he said finally, leading her into the living room, still wearing that expression of a dear caught in the headlights, 'Er, take a seat, if you would. We'll be along shortly.'

'I should hope so; you're not my only stop tonight, you know!'

David stumbled his way back to the dining room, and when he reached the doorway, his family – with the obvious exception – stared up at him, looking shocked. His eyes had aged a decade. 'Er,' he started, 'Mum, Catrin, Lana, we have a visitor in the living room.'

The grandmother moved as someone a quarter of her age to the living room, the only fitting verb being "zoomed". Upon reaching the room, and setting eyes upon who it contained, she turned stark white.

'Oh dear,' said the strangely-dressed woman, 'I seem to have intruded on a family reunion.'

'YOU!' bellowed Svetlana, 'why are YOU here? You will leave this family be! There will be no more death! No more!'

The woman seemed unperturbed, and as the rest of the family filed in and took their seats, she defended herself: 'Mrs. Wainwright, what happened to Alys was regrettable. Very regrettable. But you must understand, she died as a hero, protecting our very way of life.' Turning her head to the youngest, as though she considered this to suffice to quell the hatred boiling in the old woman's eyes, 'I suppose, then, you must be Svetlana,'—the girl nodded—'I'm Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.'

Catrin gasped. David sighed. Svetlana continued her tirade. Lana responded simply: 'Really?'

McGonagall allowed a slight smile to cross her lips, 'Yes, really—Mrs. Wainwright, would you please calm down?—Svetlana, have you ever noticed—really, Mrs. Wainwright!'

'David, take your mother back into the dining room,' said Catrin, 'we can manage this ourselves.'

'But honey, we've dealt with it before—'

'Exactly. I haven't. I'm curious. Now, go.' And with that, grudgingly, David and Svetlana left the room. 'Now, continue, miss—what did you say your name was?'

'McGonagall. Professor.' She turned to Lana, 'Now, as I was saying—'

'You know, I'm a professor, myself,' interrupted Catrin, 'what do you teach, exactly?'

'Mrs. Wainwright, if you would stop thinking about yourself for one instant and let me continue on with what I have to say to your daughter, your questions would be answered. If you won't, I fear you may just end up a frog.' Catrin was taken aback, and therefore let the strange woman continue: 'Svetlana, have you ever found yourself to have abilities somewhat different from your friends? Being able to will things to do something for you, to pick up a pen without using your hand, for instance?'

Lana simply nodded, apprehensively. She watched McGonagall with the same gravitas usually reserved for works of Shakespeare.

'Ms. Wainwright, according to our authorities, you,' she let that half-smile cross her face once more, 'are a witch.'

Her mother looked stunned, and Lana was glad her father and grandmother had vacated the room. They obviously knew about this, or at least knew who this woman was.

'Marm, I might only be eleven years old, but I know there are no such things as witches,' the young girl said matter-of-factly.

'How do you explain what you were doing with your peas earlier, then?'

Lana gasped, 'How do you…?' and McGonagall once more smiled.

'Lana, dear,' began her mother, 'there are such things as witches. Your aunt, Alys, she died when you were very young, I doubt you remember her,' she began to trail off, her eyes went slightly foggy, and then she was back, 'your aunt, she was a witch. Your dad's grandparents, too, on his mother's side, or so he's told me. I never believed him until I met Alys, but there was no denying it, then.' Her eyes once more unfocused and she was staring off into space.

'So,' said Lana, again matter-of-factly, looking down at her hands, 'I'm a witch. How can I do magic?'

'Well, that's why I'm here,' responded McGonagall, 'you are tentatively enrolled in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where, as I mentioned previously, I am Deputy Headmistress. Assuming you wish to attend—'

Here she was cut off, the mere mention of school had Lana's eyes big as saucers, and here she burst out with: 'Oh yes! Yes, of course!' the grin across her face broadening in such a manner that her mother had never seen.

'Oh, good, very good. Now,' McGonagall was rummaging about in her handbag, 'there is the small matter, now that you are considered a witch, of your inheritance.' The pair of them looked stunned, 'you see, your aunt left some items to the family which could not exactly be inherited by Muggles – that is, non-wizarding folk – and so as soon as a wizard or witch came along on the family, they would be handed over. This includes:' she read from a list, scribed on parchment, she had just pulled from her bag, 'a Swiftstick broom—slightly outdated, but it should do the job—a standard cauldron, and one hundred five galleons and seventeen sickles—wizarding money, you see,' the last being in response to Lana's altogether confused appearance at the mention of sailing ships and farm equipment, and McGonagall continued: 'which are available to you in storage at Gringotts Bank,' she produced from her handbag this time a small gold key, and handing it to Lana, 'you will of course, need this key to enter the vault.'

Acknowledging the stunned look on Lana's face, the Deputy Headmistress continued: 'Gringotts is located in Diagon Alley, in London, along with nearly every shop you'll need to—' again, she rummaged around in her handbag, producing another list, handing it to Lana, 'acquire the items listed here, including schoolbooks, and, most importantly, your wand.'

Mrs. Wainwright had begun to protest from the instant McGonagall had suggested Lana travel to London, assuming it would be both immediate, and unaccompanied. Her worries were soon quashed, however.

'You will be accompanied to London by a Hogwarts staff member, who will assist you with getting your bearings in the wizarding world. He will arrive three weeks from today, on Monday, the 29th of August,' the smile crossed her lips once more, as she handed Lana the reading list, 'congratulations, Ms. Wainwright. You are now a student at Hogwarts.'

The professor then did something most unexpected by those two present. She made as though to leap straight into the sofa, but midway through the leap, she seemed to transform, and perched atop the cushions was a small tabby cat. It mewled, and proceeded to make its way out of the house.

Lana stared down at the list in front of her, scrawled on parchment. Books. Books she'd never heard of, books about magic! And a whole school for it! It was all happening so fast, so fast in fact that it prompted an uncharacteristic outburst of family love. She wrapped her arms around her mother in a hug and shouted: "I'm a witch!"


	2. Chapter 2

I've written an apology for my words in the previous chapter below. I apologise for the wait, not that anyone is waiting on me. Five hits isn't exactly prime. Maybe someone will read this one? Maybe? Please? I'd really be quite happy if you were to enjoy my writing. Writing it for myself is fun, but it isn't all that rewarding.

I mentioned in the previous little blurb that I might work Quirrell into the story. As you will read, I have.

I do not own any of Jo Rowling's characters or concepts. You know, for disclaimer purposes.

* * *

For the following few days, Lana's temperament was completely changed. This, however, would not last. Her grandmother, having her most sincere fears realized, shut out the family after that night, and David blamed Lana. On his part, their relationship went from casual indifference to resentment, and what daughter likes being resented?

There was more to this resentment, though, both on David's and his mother's behalf. But we'll go into that another time.

To Catrin's credit, her behaviour didn't exactly change toward Lana. She just remained the same overly bookish woman with no real desire to spend time with her daughter. Therefore Lana's joy at her discovery was worn down over only a few days, and her newfound bubbly and excitable personality was taken out into the back garden and shot. Figuratively, of course.

For those few days in August, though, Lana felt more wonderful than ever she had before. There was such a realm of possibility and of knowledge that she had never even imagined in this wizarding world she'd recently become a part of. I'm going to stop writing right here because I feel as though I'm sounding horribly redundant and yucky. I'll come back to it later. Promise.

* * *

Right, so, I must now get back on track. My computer, you see, went kaput and has been in the shop, so Lana's journey has been somewhat frozen in some kind of jell-o like so many staplers. Here let me apologise for my slightly elitist ideas about fanfiction mentioned in the foreword to the previous chapter. I am sorry if you feel insulted by my words, and I must admit, I have been rather too hard on fanfiction. Some 'writers' ruin it for the rest of them, I suppose. I once saw a story that added sexual tension between Ron and Ginny. Honestly, some people! Those are the sorts that I dislike. The rest of you are fine and dandy, in my eyes. Some could use a lesson in grammar, but that's to be expected. The school system doesn't exactly do its job these days.

Carrying on, though, with the story:

* * *

Those days after the witch's visit were the most joyous Lana could heretofore recall. The knowledge that such a world exists, ripe for the academic plucking, sent her absolutely reeling. And for once, it wasn't just the academics that had her excited. 'Magic!' she thought, 'real magic. And that professor, she turned herself into a cat! I wonder if I'll do that, I wonder if I could turn myself into a hedgehog.'

The internal monologue Lana held with herself, for the next few days, at least, was concerned completely with this wizarding world she had so recently discovered. This, however, passed abruptly, as I mentioned before that short little break up there. Excitement is worthless with no one to play it off of, and without interested parents, without friends, the excitement began to dwindle. She still counted down the days until the 29th, but her mind was elsewhere. For once, it wasn't in her books, nor was it in this wizarding world. It had been sent wildly off-course, and Lana herself didn't even quite know what she was thinking about. She sat there, in her bedroom, for hours on end, thinking half-thoughts about wands and about Virginia Woolf and about leg warmers, of which she decided she would someday soon buy a pair.

With her father ignoring her almost entirely, and her mother following his lead, the days passed slowly for Lana. She remained there, in her room, day after day, night after night, every once in awhile surfacing to use the toilet, to take a bath, to grab a bite to eat. Generally, though, the three weeks following McGonagall's visit were spent entirely within her bedroom.

The Sunday before her trip to London came, and Lana decided it would be best to pack her suitcase, as she was sure that she would be leaving for the school soon after. It was a tattered brown thing, the suitcase, which must have been thirty years old. It wouldn't stand on its end; flopped over, it did. She thought it would have been better to have a trunk, but you take what you're given, she supposed. Several sets of clothing were packed, along with her favourite books and the necessary toiletries, and, being sure that there was enough room for the items she would have to buy, she zipped up the suitcase and it plopped down onto the floor.

The excitement of weeks previous beginning once more to creep up her leg, Lana went about preparing everything for departure the following day: her materials list, with all those foreign and mystical-sounding requirements, her vault key, and, of course, her clothes: a cardigan, a long brown skirt, a nondescript pair of pants and a pair of grey woolly socks—not exactly summer attire, but it should be understood that Lana dressed every day as though it was November.

Then the day came. The number 29 jumped out at her from the calendar on her wall that morning, the photo depicting a summery pastoral landscape. Quite mundane and boring, the calendar was, really, but it had been a birthday gift from one of her teachers, whom she quite admired, and so she kept it up. Best to know what day it is, anyway.

In any case, the fateful Monday came about and upon descending to the kitchen to fix herself some breakfast, Lana realised that her parents, too, had been counting down the days. The pair of them were there, waiting for her as she went about her usual morning routine, her long dark hair still dripping from the bath—'It'll dry when it dries' she says in regard to the absence of a towel—and her skirt flowing absent-mindedly about her feet.

'So,' said her father, and though she had expected something further to come from his mouth, nothing did.

She looked up at him: 'so?'

'So,' he began again, 'you're leaving, then?'

'Well, I might as well, I suppose.'

'I suppose.'

'You haven't much to say to me, have you?'

'Not particularly, no,' and an expression crossed his face that probably would have horrified any other child. Only for a split second, mind, but David's face had flared with such jealousy that it is rather likely that a magpie somewhere went for the good silverware in a nearby chalet.

'Oh, all right,' Lana responded, behaving again as few children would—her relationship with her father wasn't exactly sunshine and daffodils, and so this interchange was to be expected, in her case—and she eyed the cupboard, 'I wouldn't mind getting myself some breakfast, though.'

Her parents muttered to each other as she was preparing her toast and this word or that reached her ear, but what did it matter? These parents are no real blessing; she could certainly do without them—she has, in fact, done without them for the past three weeks! So what good do they serve? She thus allowed herself to disconnect once and for all from her parents, and from that moment on they had no further stock in her life.

This, you see, is one of the oddities of young Svetlana's personality—that is, the nearly machine-like way she is able to cut people from her life. It stems, I suppose, from her lack of any real friends or truly proper family for as long as she can remember; she doesn't quite know how people are meant to feel about one another. Thus, she has this quite inhuman ability to sever emotional ties as easily as turning out a light. I feel rather sorry for her.

Her toast toasted and with jam spread atop, she sat down at the kitchen counter and ate, paying meticulous detail to where each crumb fell, but doing nothing to clean it up. She got pleasure simply from watching them fall, altering the universe in their own small way.

Catrin put a hand on her daughter's damp, cardigan-covered shoulder, and asked in the most motherly tone she could come up with: 'Are you sure this is what you want, honey?'

'Oh, yes,' came the girl's response, between bites. How do they make jam, she wondered to herself. Surely they don't just squash the raspberries. There are no doubt a number of things added! As she reached for the jar to take a gander at the list of ingredients, there was a knock at the door, and Lana bolted upstairs to find her suitcase. Upon her return to the entry hall, she came across her mother standing with a tall, gaunt man in long, purple robes, with neatly maintained brown hair thinning a bit at the front.

'You're Svetlana?' he said, looking up the stairs at the young girl with the large suitcase. He seemed somewhat distracted, absent-minded. She nodded, approaching him, and he continued, 'My name is Quirrell; I'm professor of Muggle Studies at Hogwarts. That is to say, the study of non-wizarding folk, their artefacts, et cetera. Have you any packing left to do? I'd like to—' he stepped into the living room, still talking, wandering aimlessly about the room, '—take a look around. I haven't been to a Muggle home in awhile.'

'No, professor, I think I'm done,' Lana said, but the professor didn't seem to hear her. He had just discovered the television, and proceeded to turn its knobs rather clumsily. 'Professor?' Lana said again, louder this time.

'Oh, er, what? Yes? Finished packing already?' he was fumbling his words and seemed to be fumbling his thoughts just as well, 'Well, I'll let you say your goodbyes—'

As he began to turn back to the television, bending down to examine its back end, David interrupted him: 'We've already said our goodbyes.'

He stood up, slightly flustered, obviously wishing more time with the cornucopia of Muggle artefacts present in the Wainwright home, but conceded. 'Of course, of course you have, yes,' he said, coming back into the entrance hall. 'Well, Miss Wainwright, are you ready to go?'

'Quite ready, I think.'

'Well then, let us be off!' he said, with a tone of finality, and without a backward glance, Lana followed him out of the house, leaving her parents standing there in the entryway.

Quirrell was leading her toward an aging Skoda, not a very pretty automobile in which to ride to London. The professor explained to her that it wouldn't be quite wise to fly aboard broomsticks to London in the broad daylight, and he mentioned something about apparition that Lana didn't catch. He seemed to almost babble in a different language half the time, words pouring out of his mouth that had no associated definition in her brain. She loaded her suitcase into the back seat of the small car, and sat herself in the passenger seat. Quirrell took the wheel.

'I'm not exactly, er, the best welcoming committee, I'm afraid,' he said with a rather bizarre smirk, 'I'm just the only professor who knows how to drive an automobile.'

With that, he keyed the ignition, and the two of them were on their way to London.


End file.
